Two hours into the search, the Fly entered one of the few remaining cells at the far end of the corridor. Inside sat a man older than those Kilkenny had seen thus far but strangely ageless in appearance. Unlike the others who slept or fidgeted nervously, this man sat upright like a cross-legged Buddha. His eyes were closed, but Kilkenny knew he was awake because he was softly reciting something.
‘Enhance B-1.’
The Fly’s camera focused in on the man’s shoulder.
‘Target site. Land.’
The Fly orbited the room a few times before alighting on the man’s shoulder. His voice was barely above a whisper but detectable. Kilkenny could hear his words.
‘—benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.’
Definitely not Chinese, Kilkenny realized.
‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.’
‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ Kilkenny translated in a whisper.
Kilkenny realized from the cadence of the voice that the man was saying the rosary. After two more Hail Marys, the man completed the decade and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra—’
Kilkenny knew the Latin versions of these prayers because both his parents and grandparents had been raised with the Latin mass in use before the landmark Vatican II changes. The old invocations were both familiar and timeless.
‘—Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen.’
‘Speaker on.’ Kilkenny commanded. A microphone-shaped icon appeared in the lower corner of his screen. ‘—but deliver us from evil. Amen,’ he whispered into his throat mike.
The man was silent. Perhaps he didn’t hear the Fly’s transmission, Kilkenny thought.
Then, ‘Who is there?’ The man spoke softly in halting English.
Kilkenny’s pulse quickened. There can be only one man in this prison who knows Latin and English.
‘A friend. Are you Yin Daoming?’
‘I am,’ Yin said softly.
‘Peter sent me. Your request for deliverance from evil has been granted.’
26
Liu Shing-Li’s eyes fluttered open with the first trill of his cell phone. His hand was on the device before it could ring a second time.
‘Liu,’ he answered clearly without any hint of the dreamless sleep that enveloped him just seconds earlier.
A woman lay on the bed beside him, her body tangled in the sheets, felled by exhaustion. He couldn’t remember her name, not that it mattered. He assumed it was a professional alias, no different from the one he’d given her or the ones he employed in his line of work. In that way, their professions were similar. Both Liu and the prostitute treated personas as wardrobe, to be worn and discarded as circumstance required — an occupational form of schizophrenia.
‘I’m on my way.’ He ended the call.
He showered, dressed, and was out of the hotel room in less than ten minutes, and through it all, the woman did not stir. He did not consider the previous evening’s entertainment lovemaking. Rather, it was sexual calisthenics. Sex was a physical pleasure in its own right and, to Liu’s way of thinking, not to be complicated with emotion. This detached approach to commingling required increasingly exotic techniques to invigorate his libido.
At this hour, still well before dawn, the drive to the capital’s western periphery went quickly. Of course, no traffic officer would consider stopping Liu’s car once he saw the special license-plate tag.
Liu cleared the main security checkpoint and was admitted to the manicured grounds of the Ministry of State Security’s campus at Xiyuan. Like Langley and Lubyanka, the intelligence agency’s headquarters took its name from the place it was located. Xiyuan meant Western Garden. Situated next to the former imperial Summer Palace, the facility boasted spectacular landscaping. The buildings, though modern in design, were distinctly Chinese and respectful of their ancient and illustrious neighbor.
Liu strode purposefully through the ornate corridors of the wing occupied by the senior members of the ministry. He had no interest in the artifacts on display — to him they were merely cultural trophies, spoils to the victor.
‘Go in, please,’ the executive assistant said, stifling a yawn as Liu entered the anteroom of the minister’s office suite. ‘He is expecting you.’
The massive wooden door to Tian Yi’s office swung open silently and closed behind Liu with a barely audible click. Tian sat on a black leather sofa reading a file while sipping a cup of tea.
‘I am pleased you arrived so quickly,’ Tian said without looking up from the file.
‘There were no delays on the way, Minister Tian.’
‘Good. Please sit.’
Tian indicated a chair that faced him. Liu sat. Between the two men stood a low, black-lacquered table that held a tea service.
‘Tea?’ Tian asked perfunctorily, his eyes still on the papers in the file.
‘Thank you,’ Liu replied.
Liu filled a porcelain cup with rich black tea and took in the slightly floral aroma. He sipped the hot brew and discovered a smooth, malty flavor with a hint of citrus. Golden Yunnan.
‘We have received a disturbing report from Rome. The dead Pope secretly named Yin Daoming a cardinal of the foreign Catholic Church.’
‘We had always suspected as much.’
‘Yes, but he remained unnamed because the Vatican knew we would not allow it. Now that the Pope is dead, what he kept secret died with him.’
‘Then Yin is no longer a cardinal, secret or otherwise?’
‘He never was,’ Tian replied, ‘at least not in a way that posed a problem for us. But now he is something much more dangerous. According to Rome, Yin has become a papabile.’
‘Papabile?’
‘An Italian term for someone who might be elected Pope.’
Yin a Pope? Liu questioned the proposition in his mind. He would have laughed had anyone other than the minister suggested it.
‘Why would they do such a thing?’ Liu asked. ‘It’s madness.’
‘All religion is a form of madness, yet such an act might also be politically brilliant. The Pope is not just the leader of a church but the ruler of a nation. If Yin became Pope, he would cease to be a Chinese citizen in the eyes of most of the world. He would instead be a head of state and the spiritual leader of an international organization with as many followers as there are people in China.’
‘But what does that matter?’ Liu asked dismissively. ‘Yin’s church has no military, and its billion followers are scattered all over the world.’
‘What you perceive as weakness can also be a strength,’ Tian countered. ‘During the Second World War, Winston Churchill tried to persuade Josef Stalin on the advisability of an alliance with the Vatican. Stalin reportedly scoffed at the idea, asking rhetorically, How many divisions does the Pope have? Stalin is dead and the Soviet Union is no more, yet the Vatican endures. The billion who follow the Pope do so willingly. If Yin is elected Pope, keeping him prisoner would be very dangerous for China.’
‘Yet we cannot let Yin Daoming go free.’
‘No,’ Tian agreed. ‘The Vatican is aware of this fact too. The information from Rome also indicates that a clandestine effort is under way to take Yin out of the country.’